“I considered and discarded it,” he said. “I’ve hardly come back. I haven’t had time to recover from foreigners.”
“I should like to meet some foreigners,” she said. “I should like to meet nothing but foreigners.”
“Then marry Ashmont and make him take you abroad,” he said. He could picture her climbing the steps of the Boboli Gardens in Florence and looking out over the city. He wondered what color her eyes would turn when they first lit upon the palazzi overlooking Venice’s canals. He could see her in a gondola, in the intimacy of an elegant, well-cushioned felze . . . and it was better not to imagine the sorts of things one could get up to in those tiny cabins.
“I’ve already thought of that,” she said. “I’ve reviewed the advantages. Repeatedly. The library at his place in Nottinghamshire, I will admit, loomed large in my calculations. And in case I had overlooked any, Aunt Lavinia was more than happy to fill in the gaps. I should have everything I ever wanted, she said—though I would say it depends on what one wants. Not that I understand how he’s managed not to be up to his ears in mortgages and debts. But you may be sure that Papa and Uncle Henry looked into those matters very closely. That is, Uncle Henry did. I don’t believe Papa truly understands numbers, unless they’re in the racing forms.” She sighed. “Ashmont hasn’t run through his inheritance. He’s increased it.” She put her hand to her head. “The world will think I’m deranged.”
The world, if Ripley knew anything about it, would blame Ashmont. Hell, Ripley blamed Ashmont. He was a rich, beautiful duke. He’d been born charming, where others had to learn it the best they could. He ought to have swept her off her feet. She ought to have been dizzy with joy on her wedding day, not drowning her troubles in brandy.
Idiot.
“Second thoughts?” he said. “We can be back to Newland House in a jiffy.”
“No, I have crossed the Rubicon. And look how far we’ve come.” She pointed an unsteady finger. “There’s Putney Bridge. I’d know it anywhere.”
“Yes, there’s quite a good—” He broke off. He’d been gone for more than a year. “Any earthquakes hereabouts lately?” he asked the watermen.
“No, Yer Grace,” said one, while the other only stared at him.
“In that case, may one presume the White Lion at Putney still stands?” Ripley said.
“Still there, Yer Grace,” the more talkative one said.
“We’ll stop and eat at the White Lion,” Ripley said. It would require their going into the High Street and would take longer than a riverside tavern, but one didn’t take ladies to taverns.
Both men nodded, and began to redirect the boat toward the Putney side of the river.
“Stop?” she said. “We don’t have time for you to corrupt innocent inn maids. I thought you were in a hurry to be rid of me.”
“You can’t expect me to travel with you all the way to Twickenham on an empty stomach,” he said.
“Can I leave you here and continue on my own?” she said. “Because I’m not in the mood to corrupt innocent innkeepers today, and I should want something to do while you dally with serving maids.”
“We’re going to have something to eat,” he said. “You and I. Or you can watch me eat.”
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“It isn’t dinner at Windsor Castle,” he said. “We’ll need no more time than what the mail coach gives passengers for dinner. You’d better eat. Less likely to get a headache that way. Voice of experience, remember?”
Olympia couldn’t remember when last she’d eaten. She couldn’t remember a number of things. A great many articles were not in their usual places in her mind, and the world about her wasn’t in its right place, either.
The duke hadn’t made a wrong suggestion, she supposed. If the body wasn’t nourished, the brain became weak. Furthermore—though she wouldn’t admit it to him for worlds or diamond coronets—she believed she was somewhat intoxicated. That was the only reasonable explanation for the jumble of her mind.
Hers was supposed to be an orderly, practical mind. To a fault, some said. Well, everybody.
The one she had at present was chaotic and impractical.
She needed to eat. It wouldn’t take long. They would be on their way, nourished and refreshed, and she would be able to think to the next step and beyond.
“I should like a sandwich,” she said. “Do they have sandwiches?”
“I’m a duke,” he said.
“Yes, of course they have sandwiches,” she said. If they didn’t, they’d obtain them one way or another. It was good to be a duke, especially a large, intimidating one.
Not that she was intimidated. He was one of Their Dis-Graces and therefore rather an idiot. But he was a powerful idiot. And a man. And even on a boat meant for several passengers, he seemed to occupy all available space. He sat with his long legs stretched out, as though he lazed on a sofa in a Turkish harem. Her mind made a picture of him in a loose shirt and flowing trousers . . . then it drifted to what Mama had told her about the wedding night.
This was by no means a shocking revelation. Olympia had sneaked away with certain of her brothers one time, and watched a stallion mount a mare. It had seemed rather uncomfortable for the mare, and work for the stallion, but of course it would be different for people . . .
. . . and she did not want to think about such things when in proximity to this large, and not entirely civilized, man . . . or at all . . . and really, she was quite hungry.
The watermen pulled into the landing place. She watched impatiently as they stowed the oars. She would have leapt from the boat then, but Ripley grasped her elbow. Not hard. He didn’t apply pressure. All the same, the light grasp kept her on the seat.
She wasn’t sure how he did it but she suspected it had something to do with being a duke.
“Wait,” he said. “Let them get out and hold the boat.”
She waited, acutely conscious of the big hand clasping her lower arm, while the watermen took their time about disembarking, then more time to turn around and take hold of the narrow end of the boat to steady it.
“All right,” Ripley said, releasing her. “Careful now.”
“The boat is on dry land,” she said. “Or damp land, to be precise.”
“Not all of it,” he said. “To be precise. The prow—”
“Yes, yes, I see.” Hurriedly she collected her veil and rose. As she stepped toward the front of the boat, it rocked.
“Careful,” Ripley said.
She turned back to him. “I can’t stop the vessel from rocking,” she said. “As you said, part of it is in the water, and water, being liquid—”
“Stay in the middle,” he said.
“I am in the middle.”
With a huff of exasperation, she turned away and started toward the front of the boat at the same moment he said, “No!”
The boat rocked jerkily. Then she was waving her arms for balance and Ripley was moving toward her, shouting. And there was his hand, which she tried to grasp, but it was a hairsbreadth out of reach. Then she was falling, and over she went, with a great, muddy splash.